


The Army Goes Rolling Along

by crmsndragonwngs, WoundedHeartWithin (crmsndragonwngs)



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Army, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Child Abuse, Character Study, Child Abuse, Emotional Trauma, Gen, PTSD, References to Drugs, War, mentions of child abuse, pre-game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-07-06 04:52:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15878937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crmsndragonwngs/pseuds/crmsndragonwngs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/crmsndragonwngs/pseuds/WoundedHeartWithin
Summary: March 10, 1989Rome, GeorgiaJacob Seed sits in the parking lot of the Army Recruiting Office, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel of the shitty Dodge pickup he’d inherited from the bastard that hit him for years and had the nerve to call himself Jacob’s father. It smells like Paul Malls and liquor, the upholstery likely hadn’t been cleaned since the truck had left the lot in ‘68, and the four years it had spent in the impound lot had done it no favors. But it was the only thing left of his shitty father’s that was actually worth anything, and the only real possession that Jacob can claim, so he sits in it with the windows down, taking shallow breaths and wondering if his churning stomach is from the smell or his nerves.





	1. Chapter 1

**March 10, 1989**  
Rome, Georgia

Jacob Seed sits in the parking lot of the Army Recruiting Office, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel of the shitty Dodge pickup he’d inherited from the bastard that hit him for years and had the nerve to call himself Jacob’s father. It smells like Paul Malls and liquor, the upholstery likely hadn’t been cleaned since the truck had left the lot in ‘68, and the four years it had spent in the impound lot had done it no favors. But it was the only thing left of his shitty father’s that was actually worth anything, and the only real possession that Jacob can claim, so he sits in it with the windows down, taking shallow breaths and wondering if his churning stomach is from the smell or his nerves. 

He stares at the small box of a building, drab beige bricks with a low roof and two doors, one covered with an awning, the other exposed to the intense Georgia sun. The door with the awning belongs to the insurance firm that shares the building with the recruiter, a cheerful blue dome of canvas flapping in the slow wind. A plain, faded “US Army Career Center” sign sits low over the other door. 

He should go inside. His appointment is at three, and a quick glance at the clock on the dash tells him he’s got five minutes to steel himself. 

Jacob takes several too deep breaths, then throws open the driver’s door and hops out. 

The inside of the building is just as Spartan as the outside. The walls are painted off white and brown carpet covers the floor, worn and faded with holes in some of the obviously heavily trafficked areas. There are posters on the walls depicting soldiers marching in lockstep and an obligatory ‘I want you!’ poster with a stern Uncle Sam pointing to the viewer. Beyond the front desk is a weight room, scratched and smudged mirrors lining one wall. Offices line the opposite wall, every door closed but one. 

“Mornin’.” A bored voice says from the front desk. Jacob steps up to the desk, more of a counter really, and rests his arms on it. He looks down at the clerk, who is seated in a folding chair with his feet kicked up, reading a magazine. 

“I have a 3 o’clock appointment with, uh Sergeant Laraby?” Jacob says calmly. The clerk glances up at him, then sighs and sets his magazine down. He flips through the open folder in front of him and scans down the list of names. 

“Jacob Seed?”

“Yessir.”

“He ain’t got anybody in his office now. You can go on in.” He nods back to the open door and snaps his magazine open again, leaning back and kicking up his feet. 

Jacob takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and marches back. He knocks on the open door, poking his head in and looking critically at the man behind the desk. He’s much older than Jacob, in his forties or fifties, and has a relaxed, self-assured air about him. He glances up at Jacob’s knock, grey eyes clear and sharp, and smiles in a soft, paternal way that Jacob isn’t sure he likes. He stands and motions to the chair in front of his desk, then sits when Jacob does. 

“Jacob Seed, I presume?” Sergeant Laraby says jovially, his index finger taping the paper in front of him. “18 years of age as of…” He puts on a pair of reading glasses and squints at the page. “3/10 this year. Well, happy birthday, son! I’m glad you decided to celebrate it here with me.” It’s not a question, so Jacob doesn’t answer. Laraby glances up at him. “Not much of a talker, are ya, boy?”

“Nosir.” Jacob replies. His back is straight and his hands are splayed on his thighs. 

“You can relax, there, Jacob. I ain’t gonna bite ya.” Laraby says kindly, smiling when Jacob forces the long muscles in his back to soften just a touch. 

“What made you wanna join the military, son?” Laraby asks, looking again at the paper. 

“I want to do something with my life.” Jacob says stiffly. 

“Says here you been to juvie a couple ’a times. Assault. Possession. Arson. Hoo-boy, you’ve done a lot in your 18 years.” Laraby says, but there’s something amused in the sergeant’s voice that takes the edge off his words. 

“Yessir.” Jacob says softly. He’s not proud of what he’s done, but he doesn’t regret any of it. He’d done what he had to do. To protect himself. To protect his brothers. He’d do it again without hesitation. He only wishes his last stunt hadn’t made everything worse. 

“Would you mind if I ask you a few questions about your charges, here?”

“Nosir.” Jacob replies. Laraby nods. 

“Let’s start from the top, then. Assault. What are the details of that?”

Jacob takes a deep breath and wills his heart to stone. 

“My father beat my middle brother within an inch of his life. I did everythin’ I could to stop him. Including hittin’ him over the head with a baseball bat.” Jacob says, his voice flat and cold, intentionally distant. “I lost control. Nearly killed him. Neighbors heard the commotion and called the cops. Daddy pressed charges and somehow they stuck.”

“Damn. I’m sorry.” Laraby says softly, scribbling notes next to the typed words on the paper. Jacob ignores his pity. “How old were you, son?”

“13.” Jacob replies. Laraby glances at him again and sighs. 

“Okay. How about possession?” 

Jacob shrugs. “I needed money. Was plannin’ on takin’ my brothers and runnin’. Our mother left a few years after my youngest brother was born and I couldn’t stand the thought of him only knowin’ pain. So I was cookin’ and sellin’ meth, tryin’ to save up enough money to get three bus tickets and still have enough for food and a place to stay when we got to where we were goin’.” Jacob takes another deep breath and clasps his hands in his lap. “I was 15.”

Laraby scribbles some more and sighs deeply. 

“Finally, arson.” He says, sounding hesitant, almost as if he doesn’t want to hear this story. 

“My father was arrested when I was servin’ the six week sentence for possession. Child abuse, finally. We all got thrown into the system. Together, luckily. We were put in a foster home, but our foster parents had a mean streak, too, and their favorite Seed boy to beat was my youngest brother. My six-year-old baby brother.” He does crack then, the wounds still fresh and raw. His voice shakes and he bares his teeth. “I snapped.” He whispers, leaning forward because he doesn’t trust his voice. “I’m not proud of it. But I had to protect him. I didn’t have a choice.” He hisses. 

“What did you do, son?” Laraby urges, his grey eyes wide. 

“I set the barn on fire. The old man was too big for me to take down by myself and my middle brother was only 14 and too sensitive to— I didn’t want him to get hurt. But I couldn’t make him _stop hitting John_. So I ran outside and had the bright idea to set the barn on fire. Just to get his attention. It was enough to send the old man outside. Joseph— my middle brother— grabbed John and ran out of the house. The old man caught me coming outta the barn and tackled me. We fought, but the fire spread so fast. I was distracted by it racin’ across the cornfield and he kicked me in the head. Knocked me out. I came to as the—“ he shudders, snapping his mouth shut and gesturing vaguely to the warped right side of his face. “I was 17.” He says softly. The scars still pull and ache, a constant reminder of the last time he’ll likely ever see his brothers again. The brothers he had sacrificed everything for. 

At least they’re safe. God, he hopes they’re safe. 

Laraby continues his scribbling, flipping the page over and writing furiously on the back. 

“Says you got outta juvie yesterday?” He questions quietly. Jacob shrugs again. 

“Got daddy’s truck out of the impound and drove straight here. Slept in the parking lot.” He says with a sigh. 

“Okay.” Laraby says softly. “That’s all the questions I have about your past. I’ve got an idea of the kind of man you are, here, and I’d like to confer with you a bit.” He sets down his pen and looks at Jacob, watching his face carefully. “You’re a protector. A man that stands up to the enemy and spits in its face, regardless of the consequences. Because you can handle them. Am I right so far?”

“Yessir.”

“You’re loyal, fierce, ready to lay down your life for your brothers.” Laraby says in a low voice, his gaze suddenly intense. He bangs his fist on the desk with every word. “You refuse to shrink and cower. You don’t have it in you, do you son?”

“I do what I must. Whatever it takes.” Jacob says softly. 

“Yes. _Yes_.” Laraby says, baring his teeth. “We need more warriors like you, Seed.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jacob replies, not quite proud. 

“Stone cold. Shrewd. Confident.” Laraby says, appraising him. Then he reins in his excitement and tamps the papers on his desk. “I’m gonna have you take the ASVAB. Basically, it’s a test that tells us where your strengths are. You’ll complete it right here and I’ll score you, then give you a list of jobs that the test says you’d be good at. I can help you pick your MOS— that’s your Military Occupational Specialty, like a job,— you’re my only appointment for the day so we can take as long as you need. After we get that squared away, I’ll send you out to the medic, you met ‘im already, he’s the guy at the front desk, and he’ll take you back to the infirmary and do a physical. Then, finally, we’ll send you off to a processin’ station so you can officially declare your MOS and swear in. Basic training comes next, then Advanced Individual Training, then you’ll be shipped out to a base that needs you.” He speaks quickly, but Jacob knows all of this already. Most of it had been in the brochure he’d read at least forty times in juvie. “Do you understand, son?”

“Yessir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooookay, so... I wrestled with myself on whether or not I should post this. This chapter can really actually stand alone, but I do have more written for it. The idea is to go from this moment all the way to the first mission of the game. We'll see. Mostly, I just wanted to explore Jacob's relationship with Miller and study Jacob's trauma. No romance, sorry guys. I do ship them, but that isn't the focus of this fic. I did take some liberties with the recruitment process, and basically everything about the army lol. I apologize for any and all mistakes.
> 
> Also, I'm real fuckin' rusty. I haven't sat down to write anything in a very long time. I don't know what it is about this game that brings out my muse...
> 
> Anyway, tell me what you think!
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](https://woundedheartwithin.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**March 15, 1989**  
Fort Benning, Georgia 

Basic training, week one.

They cut his hair, shave it right down to his skull, and throw him out into a sloppy training course with half a dozen men and women he’s never seen before in his life. The rain falls hard and fast, but it’s still hot. The Georgia humidity has taken three trainees out already, and the Drill Sergeant seems to be calling for their blood. 

“You fall and you’re out, Seed!” He screams over the deluge, so Jacob doesn’t fall. 

He grits his teeth, digs in, and completes the course before anyone else. 

Basic training, week two.

They put a rifle in his hands and tell him to hit all the targets. 

“Get prone, line up your shot, and squeeze the trigger.” The Drill Sergeant says. 

“Yessir.” Jacob replies. He gets prone, lines up his shot, squeezes the trigger, and hits every target dead center. 

“Fuckin’ crackshot.” One of the other trainees murmurs. 

Basic training, week three.

Someone is crying in the latrine. Jacob is lacing up his boots when he hears it. He cocks his head, listening, then sighs and stands. 

He pokes his head in, listening to discern who it is, then knocks on the door. 

“Need some water, Miller?” He says softly. Miller starts coughing immediately, trying to cover up his sobbing, and Jacob shakes his head. “Don’t worry, I’m not judgin’ you.” Miller pops his head out of the stall, his face blotchy and his cheeks wet. 

“Please don’t say anything, Seed.” He says, his voice thick and raspy. 

“I won’t say anythin’.” Jacob agrees, crossing his arms over his chest. “But this is just boot camp. The real thing’ll be worse. Harder. You sure you’re cut out for the military?”

“Yeah, course.” Miller says, standing a little straighter and swiping at his eyes. “Just, uh… feeling a little overwhelmed. That’s all.”

“Don’t show Sarg your weakness. He’ll lock onto it and have you outta here in no time.” Jacob says after a moment, leaning against the door frame. 

“I know.” Miller huffs. 

“Splash some water on your face and take some deep breaths. It’ll help you calm down and take some of the redness outta your cheeks. I’ll get you a bottle of water.” He leaves the latrine and crosses the room to the small fridge, grabs a bottle, then returns and hands it to Miller. 

“Thanks, Seed. I really appreciate this.” Miller says, tearing up again. Jacob shrugs and crosses his arms again. 

It’s nice to take care of someone. He misses his brothers, misses looking out for them, and this makes him feel a little less homesick. 

He watches Miller down half the bottle, then press the bottom of it to his cheeks. 

“Deep breaths, Miller.” Jacob says softly, and Miller complies immediately. 

Basic training, week four.

Jacob keeps an eye on Miller. He doesn’t know exactly why, but Miller stirs that fierce, protective instinct in him. Makes him feel centered, grounded. 

Miller— whose first name is Jacob, too— is really nothing special. He’s average at best, shorter than Jacob by a full head, with big, honest brown eyes. He’s lanky, a touch too lean, and nervous. But he holds his own in training, has a good eye, and is more than eager to please. He’d chosen infantry just as Jacob had. His ASVAB had indicated military police as a possible career choice as well, but when Jacob asks why he didn’t take that MOS he just shrugs. 

“I wanna fight bad guys.” He says simply, shoving a forkful of grainy instant mashed potatoes in his mouth. “Not chase down traitors. I’d like to keep my faith in my country and the Army intact as long as possible.” He chuckles softly, drawing a smile out of Jacob without his permission, then sighs. “And anyway, I dig that whole brothers-in-arms, camaraderie thing. My dad was an MP. He said that the only people who liked him were COs and kiss-asses.”

“It ain’t about who likes you, Miller.” Jacob points out, stabbing a chunk of dry meatloaf. 

“Yeah, I know. But all it’d take is one guy built like you punching me in the face and I’d be down for the count.” He chuckles again, flashing Jacob a dazzling smile. “I’d be the worst MP in history.” Jacob smiles back, not nearly as brightly, and hums. 

“Any idea what you wanna do in the infantry?” He asks, opening the little individual milk carton and thinking that being in the Army isn't much different than being in elementary school. The food’s not good, and the milk is watery as shit, but it’s filling and guaranteed and he is grateful for it all the same. How many times had he and his brothers gone without because daddy was too drunk and mean to go grocery shopping?

“I was thinking marksman.” Miller says around another forkful of potatoes. “What about you?”

“Marksman.” Jacob replies, nodding. 

“Shoulda guessed. You’re a damn good shot.” Miller chuckles again. “Hell, you could probably make it through sniper school. You’re probably the most tenacious dude I’ve ever met.” Jacob laughs outright at that. 

“Nah, I ain’t got the patience for that.” He says, grinning at his friend. 

His friend. Now that’s a novel idea. 

Basic training, week six.

They’re just over halfway through boot camp. Halfway to graduation, halfway to moving on to job training. The drill sergeant starts to pull them all aside, individually, to counsel them on their prospective jobs. 

Jacob is nervous when he enters the sparse office. Staff Sergeant Garza has been nothing but hard on them since they arrived, and while Jacob knows that that’s just how basic training works, it doesn’t stop him from being reminded of his old man and his screaming rampages. 

Garza doesn’t acknowledge him at first, just sifts through the papers on his desk and pushes his glasses up his nose each time they slide down. They sit in silence for a long time, Jacob standing at attention to the side of the chair positioned directly in front of the desk, before the staff sergeant finally sighs and looks up. 

“At ease, Seed. Go ahead and take a seat.” He says, going back to shuffling through his papers. “Eleven bravo, huh? You think you’re cut out for infantry, Private?”

“Yessir.” Jacob responds automatically. Garza nods. 

“I suppose you are, huh?” He says thoughtfully, giving Jacob a once over. “Goddamn good shot. Don’t know where they’ve been hiding you.” He’s quiet for another moment. “Any idea what you want to do after AIT?”

“Deployment, I guess, sir.” Jacob says, almost shyly. He hadn’t really thought about it. 

“Mmm.” Garza hums, considering. “You thought about Jump School?”

“Jump School, sir?”

“Airborne School. Fort Benning is known for it.” Garza considers him again. “I think the Airborne pipeline might be a good fit for you. You’re disciplined, tenacious, a fantastic marksman. These are all skills that make a good paratrooper.” He pauses, as though waiting for Jacob to respond, then continues when he doesn’t. “Paratroopers are highly trained infantry that drop into very hostile areas to perform special missions. You’d be jumping from Air Force planes to provide support for standard Army infantry, Marine regiments, SEALs, and allied Iraqi units.”

“How long is Airborne School?” Jacob asks, more to appease Garza than out of any actual interest in what he’s saying. 

“Three weeks. Ground week, tower week, and jump week. Then you’ll be shipped off to war.” Garza replies, ticking off each week on his fingers. “That’s after 12 weeks Advanced Individual Training, of course.”

“I’ll think about it, sir.” Jacob says, earning a sage nod from his drill sergeant. 

“I hope that you do.” Garza murmurs, dismissing Jacob with a curt nod. 

Basic training, week eight.

Miller has decided he wants to be in the Airbornes. Jacob just snorts. 

“Sarge got to ya, huh?” He asks dryly. 

“He discussed it with me as an option. Said I’d probably pass if I went to Jump School.” Miller says with a shrug. They’re sitting in the barracks playing cards, and when Miller reaches across the table to draw from the deck, Jacob notices for the first time the strength in Miller’s forearms. He looks down at his own arms, doubly surprised by his own musculature. 

Jacob had always been a tall, skinny kid. Underfed, not exactly weak, but certainly not strong. His skin had always hugged tightly to his bones, and he had always been able to wrap his too large hands fully around his own arms above the elbow, the pads of thumb and middle finger touching at the back of his underdeveloped bicep. 

He tries it now, his long fingers only stretching halfway across the firm muscle. He looks at his hands, no longer too large, and flexes his fingers, admiring the way the solid muscles in his forearms slide beneath his scarred skin. How had he not noticed how strong he’d become? He remembers the comment Miller had made four weeks ago, lamenting that one punch from a guy built like Jacob would take him out. Jacob hadn’t even been fully filled out then, or at least not like he is now. 

He looks up at Miller again, admiring the new breadth of his friend’s shoulders, the way his shirt— once baggy on his skinny frame— hugs his deep chest, his thick arms. He doesn’t think Miller would have any trouble taking down the Jacob from four weeks ago now. 

He looks around at the other enlistees in the barracks, stretched out on their cots reading or sitting at tables playing cards or picking their nails with pocket knives, cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, smoke curling around their shaved heads. They’re all thicker than they were when basic training started, broad and powerful and strong. 

“You okay, Seed?” Miller asks softly, drawing Jacob out of his reverie. 

“Huh?”

“It’s your turn, man.” Miller prompts, smiling when Jacob looks down at the table. 

“Sorry. Guess I wasn’t payin’ attention.”

“Guess not.” Miller laughs. 

Basic training, week ten.

It’s graduation day. Miller is five people ahead of Jacob in the procession, but that’s okay. He’s too nervous to really hold a conversation anyway. 

The guy behind him, Stanton, sighs heavily and sniffs. 

“My girl’s in the audience.” He whispers. Jacob doesn’t reply. No one is in the audience for him. 

He just wants to get this over with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read through this chapter a thousand times and I still don't like it. I'm not a fan of exposition, but I wanted to build a connection between young Jacob and the Jacob we see ingame. Anyway, there's one more chapter of exposition (I wanted to post them together but I'm not finished with the second part and it's long lol), then we'll get into some longer, meatier chapters that actually build plot. Bear with me, folks *sweats*


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw graphic depictions of violence and child abuse

**June 3rd, 1989**  
Fort Benning, Georgia

Advanced Individual Training, eleven bravo (11B) Infantryman. Fourteen weeks of rigorous training that makes Basic look like a fucking tea party. Summer is in full swing, and though Jacob is well used to the Georgia sun, he spends most of his time in a mild state of heat exhaustion. 

Miller, who’s from Illinois and decidedly not used to the heat and humidity— or at least not to this degree— spends much of the day sweating more than a human should sweat and chugging Gatorade until he pukes. He’s not the only one tossing his lunch and passing out on their daily three mile run, so the drill sergeant is surprisingly patient as he waits for them to acclimate. It takes about a week, and once everyone is running and chanting cadence without breathing like freight trains, AIT starts in earnest. 

They hone their skills, sharpen their senses, and learn new techniques to the art of war. They learn combatives to defend themselves, how to wield a KA-BAR, how to use their guns as bludgeons when they run out of ammunition. 

Sergeant Jackson is young, much younger than Staff Sergeant Garza, and has an enthusiasm for all things lethal that makes Jacob nervous. While other squads are learning how to repair vehicles and field dress wounds, Sergeant Jackson is explaining how to quickly and quietly carve out an insurgent’s jugular without getting blood on your uniform. 

“You think your enemy gon’ give a flyin’ fuck that you scared? He gon’ see it an think, ‘this fucker’s _weak as hell!_ ’ An’ he gon’ fuckin’ use that.” Jackson preaches, white teeth bared and glinting in the Georgia sun. “You can’t be weak out there. You weak, you dead. Ya got that?”

“He’s kinda scary, huh?” Miller murmurs while he and Jacob are on latrine duty. Jacob just shrugs and continues scrubbing the sink. He’s fucking terrifying, but he’s already taught them how to handle it. 

“‘You weak, you dead,’ Miller.” Jacob says quietly, flashing him a nervous smile.

—

Nine weeks into AIT and Sergeant Jackson is given a medical discharge for severe PTSD. None of the enlistees are surprised at that. He’s replaced by Staff Sergeant Monroe, and Jacob never thought he’d actually _miss_ the sonofabitch. 

Monroe is a fucking _slave-driver_. He doesn’t speak, he screams. The only positive trade-off is that they’re finally learning field skills that don’t directly correspond to killing people. Jackson’s “you weak, you dead” philosophy is put aside for the moment, and Jacob discovers a natural affinity for leadership, taking charge of his squad without hesitation during each drill. Miller, unsurprisingly, gravitates toward field medicine, excelling in helping people and risking his own life for the survival of others in every scenario they run. 

“You gotta be more careful.” Jacob says later, when they’re doing their laundry. “It’s okay to help, but you can’t help nobody if you’re dead.” Miller shrugs. 

“I haven’t died in a single drill, Seed.” He says, grinning. “And anyway, you don’t have any room to talk. You literally shielded me and Simmons with your body while I wrapped up his actual rolled ankle.”

“Good thing it’s just laser tag, huh?” Jacob chuckles. “And I wouldn’t have had to if Jones hadn’t got ‘is dumb ass killed almost immediately. I hope he ain’t our medic when we deploy. We’ll all fuckin’ die.” Miller laughs at that, shaking his head. Jacob snorts. “An’ anyway, dick, I didn’t get killed in a single exercise either. An’ I wasn’t shieldin’ ya, I was _coverin’_ ya. Took out three guys while you were busy playin’ medic.”

“My hero.” Miller snorts, pointedly rolling his eyes. 

—

Jacob tries not spend time thinking about his brothers. Most of the time he succeeds, manages to keep them distant, nothing more than an end goal for him to work toward. He doesn’t think about how Johnny had cried when the cops had hauled Jacob away. He doesn’t think about the flat stoicism on Joe’s face, blank and bland and emotionless. 

He’s busy enough most days. They run laser tag exercises every day, and there are always chores to be done. Down time is rare, but when he gets it he busies himself with his friends. Well, Miller and the other people who gravitate to Miller. 

Some of them gravitate to him, too, he supposes. The entire squad has a tendency to follow his lead during combat drills, oblivious to the fact that most of Jacob’s calls are for Miller’s benefit. He doesn’t want anyone to get hurt or killed, but he feels a responsibility toward Miller. It’s the same feeling he’d always had when he was with his brothers. Protective. Terrified of losing him. But this time he wouldn’t fuck it up. He wouldn’t do something stupid for the sake of protecting him, only to end up getting him killed. 

—

 **April 7th, 1984**  
Rome, Georgia

Joe is screaming. Jacob wakes up from a dead sleep, flailing when John shakes him. John is already crying, blue eyes huge and tears streaming down his cheeks. 

“I hear it.” Jacob snarls, throwing the blanket off of him and untangling his long legs. He stands, picks John up and gently puts him in the bed, pressing a finger to his lips to shush him. “Hush now. It’ll be alright. Stay right here, okay?” John nods. “Stay under the covers an’ put your hands over your ears. Try not to listen.” 

“I’m scared, Jake.” John whispers, his eyes the size of moons and filled with tears. 

“I know.” Jacob whispers back, ruffling his baby brother’s hair and smiling wanly. “It’s gonna be okay, Johnny. Big brother’s gonna take care of it, don’t you worry.”

He nearly takes the door off its hinges when he shoves it open. “Get your goddamn hands offa him, Daddy.” He roars, slamming the door shut behind him. The old man glances up at him, eyes bloodshot and full of evil, then snorts and goes back to punching Joe in the face. He’s standing over him, one hand fisted in Joe’s shirt, the other raising high over his head, coming down over and over, more and more blood splattered across his knuckles each time. 

Jacob tackles him, latching onto the old man’s back and wrapping an arm around his throat, squeezing for all he’s worth. 

“Git offa me, ya little bastard.” The old man snarls, standing up and backing hard into the wall. He throws himself backward, slamming Jacob into the wall several times, until Jacob has no choice but to let go and sink to the floor. 

“Hit _me_ , you fuckin’ coward.” Jacob snaps, lunging forward and grabbing him around the legs as he walks away. “Too goddamn weak to pick on someone more your size, huh old man? Afraid a fuckin’ teenager gonna kick your pathetic ass? Ain’t got the balls, gotta beat up a little kid cuz ya can’t take anyone bigger.”

“You bes’ shut yer mouth, worthless sonuvawhore.” The old man slurs, turning around and trying to kick him off. 

“You’d know. You the one that fucked ‘er.” Jacob grits, hanging on. “Had to’a been a whore to let a ugly gorilla’s ass like you put ‘is dick in ‘er.”

“Wish I never had.”

“I wish it too. Wouldna been born. Wouldna had your sorry ass as a father.” Jacob grunts and pushes up with his legs, knocking the old man off balance and taking him to the ground. “Get to the bedroom, Joe. Block the door.” He says, glancing up as he straddles the old man, putting his big hands over the bastard’s throat. Joe doesn’t move, just lies on the ground and groans, turning his head side to side slowly. “C’mon, Joe. Be strong. You gotta be strong.” He says, squeezing the old man’s throat. 

“Git offa me.” The old man grunts, surging upward and throwing Jacob halfway across the room. “C’mere, Joe. I ain’t done settin’ ya straight.” Joe still hasn’t moved. Jacob shakes his head hard and scrambles to the front door, where a baseball bat rests against the jamb. 

Jacob gets to his feet and grabs the bat, gripping it in both hands hard enough that the wood creaks. He turns, takes two long strides toward his father, and hits a home-fucking-run. 

The old man drops like a ton of bricks, blood blooming in his sandy brown hair. 

“You gotta get up, Joe.” Jacob says softly, staring at the back of the old man’s head. Joe starts to cry. “You gotta be strong. You gotta get in our room and help me protect John. If daddy wakes up ‘fore you do, he’s gonna come after ya again, so you gotta get up.” Joe just cries and cries. “Do you hear me, Joe?” 

“I was just readin’ Spider-Man!” Joe wails, finally moving to sit up. “Daddy said it was evil! Said he needed to beat the devil outta me. What if he’s right, Jake? What if he’s gotta beat the devil outta me?”

“There ain’t no devil in you, Joe, now get your ass in the bedroom and block the goddamn door.” Jacob snaps, starting to lose his patience. Joe cries harder. “I’m sorry, Joe, but you gotta _get up_. You gotta _move_.”

Finally, _finally_ Joe gets up and shuffles to the bedroom the three of them share. Jacob waits, listens for the door to shut, listens for the sound of Joe and John pushing the dresser in front of it. 

He takes a step forward and raises the bat over his head. 

—

 **August 28th, 1989**  
Fort Benning, Georgia

Jacob wakes up to Miller shaking his shoulder. He flails, eyes flying wide. 

“Where’s Joe? What’s that bastard done now?” He hisses, hand closing around Miller’s wrist. 

“Hush, Seed, before you wake up the whole barracks.” Miller says softly. 

“What? Who the fuck—” He blinks, trying to get his eyes to focus, then huffs and flops back onto his cot. “Shit.” He breathes. 

“Some nightmare, huh?” Miller says, kneeling down next to Jacob’s cot. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” Jacob replies, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Yeah, sorry.”

“It’s okay. Go back to sleep, huh?” Miller says, grinning when Jacob peeks at him. “Try not to yell so much.”

“Sorry.” Jacob repeats. 

“Don’t be, I’m just kidding.” Miller replies gently, patting his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought about leaving out the last section and starting the next chapter with it, but I felt bad leaving y'all with _that_ as an ending lol


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry for the delay. Enjoy?
> 
> Just a heads up, I took a whole bunch of liberties with everything in this chapter, so it's not completely accurate. I did base everything in fact, but some things just don't translate well into a stupid fanfic lol, so I'm sorry if anything is incorrect.

**September 23rd, 1989**  
Fort Benning, Georgia 

Airborne School, Ground Week

Jacob hadn’t particularly wanted to go to jump school, but Miller had been sure and Jacob had never had much in the way of ambition. He just wants to fight and forget. He just wants to get paid so that when he finally does go home, he can find his brothers and put an end to the cycle. 

“The pay’ll be better if you join the Airbornes.” Miller had said when Jacob admitted his motives. “Specialists get higher pay at all ranks.” 

It had been a good point, and Jacob had only given one more half-hearted word of argument before giving in and putting his name down on the list. Miller had been ecstatic. 

“Honest to God, Seed, there’s nobody else I’d rather have at my back than you.” He’d said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Jacob had just grunted and rolled his eyes, but the truth is he feels the same. 

Ground week isn’t too much different than AIT and Basic, except for the emphasis on landing technique. The instructors— Black Hats, the exiting recruits had called them as the newcomers had passed them by the barracks— watch them like hawks as they jump from first three feet, then six feet, then nine feet, and so on. They firmly correct, only really yelling when one of them does something stupid, and eventually Jacob finds himself relaxing into the rhythm of it. 

They learn and practice parachute landing falls, something that Jacob struggles with at first, never moving on to the next level until they’ve gotten it down perfectly. It’s a simple enough maneuver, and he’s watched the Black Hats and recruits all perform it perfectly at least a hundred times now, but he just can’t get his body to copy it. 

“It’s a common problem.” The Black Hat Jacob is assigned to, Sergeant Jones, says after his fourth failed PLF from the three foot platform. “You’re just too stiff. No big deal, you just have to learn to let it happen. Once you get it down pat, it’ll be as natural as breathing. Now hop on up and try again. But this time, imagine your body is like a piece of rope, okay? When a piece of rope lands on the ground, it’s just lays over nice and loose. That’s what you wanna be. Nice and loose.” Jacob sighs and climbs up on the platform again. “Before you jump, go ahead and talk me through the process, Seed.”

“Jump. Land on the balls of my feet. Bend knees, cover face with my arms. Collapse sideways onto my calf, then thigh, then hip. Rotate and land on my back.” Jacob says, exhaling heavily. 

“Good. You got it up here,” Jones taps the side of his head, then slaps both hands on his thighs, “just gotta get it down here. Remember: nice and loose.” 

“Clear, Sergeant Airborne.” Jacob says and takes a deep breath, rolls his shoulders to work out some of his tension,and jumps. He rolls down onto his side and flips onto his back, and cheering breaks out all around him. 

“Alright! You did it!” Jones yells over the hooting and hollering. Miller steps forward and offers a hand, helping Jacob up and dusting him off. Hands are slapping his back and shoulders, “good work” in thirty different happy voices surrounding him on all sides, and he can’t help but grin at the camaraderie. 

—

Tower Week

“Shit, look at that thing.” Miller says, staring up at the 250 feet tall jump tower. “We gotta jump from that thing?”

“Nah, we’ll drop you off one of the arms way up there with the parachute open.” Sergeant Jones says with a chuckle, stepping up behind them. “And anyway, this is nothing. Wait til you’re jumping out of an actual plane.” He puts his hand in the air and whistles as he brings it back down, miming the fall. “1,250 feet. By the time we’re done with you here, though? You won’t even think about it once those doors open.” He raises his voice then and addresses all the recruits. “Alright, boys, fall in! You’ll notice that a lot of your squadmates are missing. They couldn’t cut it, so they washed out. That makes you guys the best of the best. Jump school isn’t easy. You guys know that. Paratrooper divisions are some of the most highly specialized, well-trained infantry divisions in the United States Armed Forces. You should all be damn proud to be here. I know I’m proud of all of you. But it’s not over. I won’t lie, Tower Week is gonna kick all of your asses. And Jump Week will be worse. But if you can make it, you’ll have the honor of calling yourself Airborne. Sound good?”

“Sounds good, Sergeant Airborne!” They answer in unison, standing at attention as Jones paces in front of them. 

“We got a long day tomorrow. We’ll be running through mass exit training and phases of flight. Until then, you’re dismissed.”

“Clear, Sergeant Airborne!”

—

Jump Week

Repetition is key to staying alive as a paratrooper. The process is exact, demanding, and must be followed to the letter. You don’t follow instructions, you don’t repeat the process over and over again until it’s second nature, you die. It’s as simple as that. 

Sitting in his jumpseat beside Miller, waiting for his turn to leap out of a fucking plane (this is the first time he’s even been in a plane, and now he has to fucking jump _out_ ), loudly repeating the mass exit protocol with the rest of his stick— the line of jumpers that he stands in. They’ve been drilling it since day one of Tower Week, and now that they’re on day three of Jump Week, it’s time to put up or shut up. 

Sergeant Jones is at the front of the stick, making hand signals and shouting over the roar of the engine and the howl of the wind whipping by at 70 miles an hour, sucking the sound of the Black Hat’s voice out into the open sky. He tells them to repeat, and they do, chanting the protocol like a mantra. 

ONE: GET READY  
TWO: STAND UP  
THREE: HOOK UP  
FOUR: CHECK STATIC LINE  
FIVE: CHECK EQUIPMENT  
SIX: SOUND OFF FOR EQUIPMENT CHECK  
SEVEN: STAND IN THE DOOR  
EIGHT: GO

Then, almost too soon, it’s time to jump. 

Jacob peers out the door, staring at the ground 1,250 feet below, and has a moment of abject horror. So many things could go wrong, and there’s little he can do about it once he leaves this plane. Fuck. 

“See you at the bottom, man.” Miller yells over the wind, grinning from ear to ear. 

The Black Hats give the signal and they jump. There’s a moment of chaos as they fall, too close together to be comfortable, bodies accelerating toward terminal velocity. Then the sound of the plane’s engine fades away, replaced by the rush of air and the pounding of Jacob’s own heart, and he feels weightless, like he’s flying instead of falling, shooting through the sky like a superhero in one of Joe’s comic books. It seems to last forever, the ground static at first and then rushing up toward him, ready to swallow him whole, but when the time comes to pull his chute he can’t help but think that it’s too soon. There’s a moment where the chute just trails after him, folded and useless, before it inflates and catches him hard, the momentum giving the feeling of being ripped upwards and suspended. 

Jacob looks down once he settles into his descent, taking in the sprawling expanse of Fort Benning to the north, the gentle curve of the Chattahoochee River below, and the Fryar Drop Zone they’re aiming for. 

The ground rises to meet him, has him bending his knees and raising his arms instinctively. He collapses and flips on impact, the motion as natural to him as breathing, and then he just lays there, staring at the sky that he’d just fallen out of like a goddamn meteorite. 

He starts laughing. He can’t help it. He lays there on his back, arms outstretched, and laughs harder than he’s ever laughed in his life. After a moment, he realizes that he’s not the only one laughing. All around him recruits are cackling and hooting, crawling up onto their knees and staggering upright before doubling over and howling. 

“Not so bad, is it?” Jones yells over them. Jacob sees him stand and dust himself off out of the corner of his eye, unhooking his chute and beginning the process of folding it. The recruits all begin to slowly follow suit, grinning at each other and chatting excitedly. Jacob’s own hands shake as he tries to unhook his gear, his fingers clumsy and giddy and half-asleep. “Four more jumps and you earn your wings. Think you can handle that?”

“Hell yeah, Sergeant Airborne!” Someone yells, and laughter ripples through them. 

“Am I clear?” Jones corrects them sternly, but there’s a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. 

“Clear, Sergeant Airborne!” They all answer, loud and proud and still wavering a bit from the adrenaline. 

—

After five jumps— two “Hollywood” and three in full gear— and a night jump as a final exam, they’re ready to graduate. It’s scheduled for the morning after the night jump, and none of them are able to sleep. They all whisper to their neighbors, staring into the darkness, worried and excited at once. 

The graduation ceremony itself is a brief, utilitarian affair. They earn their wings— a silver parachutist’s badge pinned to their uniform jackets— and then they shake hands with a bunch of people before mingling with the civilian guests. Most of the tradition, as Sergeant Jones had told them before the ceremony started, happened next, just after lights out. 

“It’s a hazing ritual.” Miller says later, admiring the badge as he turns it over in his blunt fingers. “Asked my dad about it earlier, after graduation. Tried to introduce you, but you’d already taken off.” He frowns and flicks his brown eyes up at Jacob. 

“I ain’t a minglin’ kinda guy.” Jacob says with a shrug, leaning back in his chair. 

“Yeah, I noticed.” Miller snorts and pins his badge back to his jacket. “Anyway, he said he didn’t know much about it. All the divisions keep a tight lid on their traditions, but he said that there’s always two graduation ceremonies, no matter where you are. There’s the dog-and-pony show for the families, and then there’s the _real_ ceremony.”

“The _real_ ceremony, huh?” Jacob murmurs, tilting back on the chair legs. 

“Yeah. Rite of passage, or whatever. Hope it’s not too bad.” Miller replies. Jacob hums softly and smiles. 

He’s sure he’s had worse. 

That night, Jones barges into the barracks and tells them all to lose their shirts, grab their badges, and come outside, on the double. They all look at each other, wide-eyed and worried, then do as they’re told. They shuffle outside into the firelight just beyond the door, and find their Sergeant and all the other Black Hats on the other side of it, peering at them through the flames. The other barracks empty out and gather around the fire, a hushed murmur rippling through them. 

“You earned your wings, but you ain’t earned the right to use ‘em, yet.” One of the Black Hats says, and Jacob can’t help but think that tribal drums and warpaint would not be out of place here. 

“Take out your badges and remove the clasps.” Jones says, stepping around the fire and standing in front of the his unit. The other sergeants do the same. “The soldiers that came before us, from World War II to today, believed that you don’t become a real soldier until you shed blood. This ceremony is a rite of passage, assurance that you _deserve_ the wings that you have been given, and a chance for you to shed your blood without taking a bullet. But more importantly, it will ensure that you will wear your wings even when you don’t.” He taps his own bare chest, over his heart, where two pinpoint scars set an inch apart mar his flesh. “Once an Airborne, always an Airborne. Tonight, boys, you earn your Blood Wings.” Jones steps forward then, coming to stand directly in front of Jacob, and holds out his hand, palm up. “Give me your badge, Seed.” He says softly. Jacob hesitates. “It’s alright, son. It only hurts for a moment.”

Jacob sighs and hands him his badge. He watches Jones turn it over in his hands, then raise it to Jacob’s already scarred chest. The pins prick against his sensitive skin, but he barely has time to register it before Jones is slamming his palm flat against Jacob’s chest, driving the pins into his flesh. Jacob doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even flinch, just stares into Jones’s eyes as he raises a small wooden baton and positions it over the badge. 

“You graduated in unit 12, so I’m going to hammer it into your chest 12 times.” Jones explains, then begins to strike the badge. 

It stings like hell, aching deeper and deeper with each strike, and by the time Jones steps away, his fingers are covered in Jacob’s blood. He wipes his hands on his pants, stained with blood from past ceremonies, adding Jacob’s blood like a master painter adding yet another brushstroke to his canvas. 

He moves on to Miller, then to Potter, then to Suarez, and so on until each of them has blood running down their chests, their silver badges stained and shining strangely in the firelight from where they are pinned to their flesh. 

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so now we're going to be getting into the meat of the story. The style is going to change a little bit, and I'm going to start tackling some very difficult topics. I have always thought that it is my responsibility as a writer to push boundaries and tell a story that wants to be told regardless of how uncomfortable it makes me. In this case, I'll be writing about the horrors of war. I'm going to be drawing from documented experiences, so I hope I can create something that is both respectful and realistic. I'll tag content as I post chapters, because I don't want to spoil anything, so please be on the lookout for any potential triggers. I'll also be sure to put content triggers in the beginning notes as well.
> 
> As always, feel free to tell me what you think, where I can improve, and what you might like to see in the future!
> 
> Works Cited  
> https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Airborne_forces  
> http://www.benning.army.mil/infantry/artb/1-507th/Airborne/Jump.html  
> http://www.unc.edu/~rdaniels/papers/82nd/82ndairborneinitiations.html  
> https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parachute_landing_fall  
> https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States_Army_Airborne_School  
> https://m.goarmy.com/soldier-life/being-a-soldier/ongoing-training/specialized-schools/airborne-school.m.html  
> https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blood_wings


End file.
